I purchased my  first pair of go-go boots (together with a matching A-line miniskirt) in the April of 1968 with some money given to me by my parents for my seventeenth birthday. Made from unlined maroon suede with a two inch heel and a height that partly covered my knee when standing, I really felt at long last that I was totally ‘in vogue’. Mind you, I will always think of this purchase as being a little hasty, as I found them to be uncomfortable when seated, because of the way they used to cut into my leg behind the knee, as well as when out walking, because the unlined suede either felt clammy or sticky against my calves depending on the state of the weather.

At about this time my education at ‘L’Ecole de St. Emile’ in Central France was coming to a natural conclusion with the customary string of end of term examinations and leaving parties to be attended. Although having already decided on what sort of career I should like to direct my attentions towards, it looked as if I was going to have to pass the next  six to eight months in a state of relative limbo as the vast majority of companies contacted had stated that junior positions in this area were only being made available to those aged eighteen or above. Fortunately, there was one company I spoke with (called P.F.I.), who seemed more interested in my general enquiry than most, as they took all of my details and suggested that I reapply for one of the posts in either February or March of the following year.

As my parents were still stationed in India and with the knowledge that it would hardly be a career move to go out and join them, I finally settled for returning to England and spending the interim period with my grandparents; the age old problem with grandparents being of course, that they  have an unfailing tendency to spoil their grandchildren and this, predictably, is just what happened to me. What with breakfast in bed every morning, reading in the sun-parlour (often in ones’ bedclothes) and evening meals by the ‘box, there seemed to be far too few hours in a day to contemplate rising up off one’s backside to go out and look for a job!

Six weeks into my stay I received an unexpected correspondence from my favourite Aunt who at that time lived in an idyllic little cottage situated a mere stones’ throw from Bideford Bay in North Devon. She had clearly been doing more to find me suitable employment than I had, as I was made aware of a temporary  post which was shortly to become available at her local primary school to teach both English and a smattering of French to the pupils whilst their regular teacher was away on maternity leave;  and ‘didn’t this seem to be the perfect opportunity to do something worthwhile with my newly gained qualifications’?

Though I’m not quite sure how my recently awarded French examination results were going to assist me in obtaining a temporary teaching post at an English primary school, my dear Aunt Jayne seemed so pleased to be acting as an intermediary in order to secure me the position, I could hardly see myself refusing! Only a week or so later I was even more surprised to learn that my own involvement in the ‘negotiations’ was strictly limited to the attending of one informal chat with the Headmistress (who just happened to be an old friend of hers ) on Friday, October the 18th. The idea being proposed that I would initially be taken on as a classroom ‘assistant’ in the first instance, thus preparing myself for the time when I would be taking over the education of the children  on my own.

Newly arrived down from North London that morning, I’m fairly certain that Headmistress Mrs. Carpenter had reservations about taking on the trendy young thing she politely ushered me into the seat on the other side of her desk. Complete with deep tan, long hair, suede miniskirt  and kneeboots, I could sense her unease and immediately excused myself for my travelling ‘garb’, stating categorically that my ‘best’ clothes were currently at the cleaners in preparation for my new situation. In fact, as I walked away from the school later on that day, I became so embarrassed with my thoughtless lack of care over my appearance, that I visited a number of ladies outfitters down in the town and ran my purse almost dry before catching the bus to my Aunts’ house; procuring in the process a number of respectable ‘School Ma’am’ type accoutrements  better befitting the responsibilities  I was due to be taking up on the Monday morning.

It is pleasing to report that the ‘new’ job went like clockwork. I liked the children, the children seemed to like me and the Headmistress appeared genuinely sorry when the date was finally fixed for my departure. I had found it somewhat amusing when starting work in my ‘assistants’ capacity as I was introduced to all the children as a French girl! Nothing of course, could have been further from the truth as my real birthplace was Hertfordshire, but I chose to let the matter rest as I felt that it would only confuse the issue if I were to contradict their teacher. Mind you, I often wonder if any of them were a little bemused by the fact that I could communicate with a perfect English accent!

In February,  I reapplied to P.F.I. for the post of trainee European customer support representative and was delighted when they responded promptly and were able to arrange for the interview in Paris to be held over the forthcoming halfterm week.

Upon my return, I spent two long nailbiting weeks awaiting the result of my interview, giving serious thought as to what I might do with myself should the company turn me down, but I need not have concerned myself, as when the favourable letter of intent duly appeared, it allayed all of my fears. Apparently, I had given an excellent account of myself on the day and showed the potential for being a valuable asset to the company. On receipt of my formal acceptance, my period of training was due to commence on Monday the 21st. April 1969, and would be somewhere between six to eight months in duration. Based initially in the Paris office complex, there was no immediate need for me to seek accommodation at that time as a vacancy in one of the company flats within easy walking distance of the office had been already reserved for me.

I remember being simply ecstatic about my good fortune! My carrièr nouveau  was due to start just after my eighteenth birthday,  a mere seven days after having said farewell to Aunt Jayne and my newly found friends in Hartland. The week was due to be spent in Hertfordshire not only with my Grandparents, but also with my parents who had arranged a week away from the Rampur Embassy in order to see me properly placed for my first steps out into the Wide World.

As my birthday fell on a Friday that year, this was the day my parents elected to take me up to London to see me properly decked out with a suitcase of suitably smart clothes for the coming season. Being the class of people they were, they ignored such obvious centres of couture such as Carnaby Street and the King’s Road, and proceeded to take me on a tour of Knightsbridge, Oxford Street and Bond Street, as these were supposedly the only places worth looking for ‘decent’ clothes.

To be fair, I was half expecting my parents to be only interested in ‘fuddyduddy’ type apparel, but I guess that my Mum must had taken my Father aside and had ‘words’ with him before we went out that day, as he seemed resigned to the fact that my choices were unlikely to be his cup of tea!

My second surprise that day was to find that the ‘big’ stores in London all had proper departments set aside with good stocks of really ‘with-it clothes’. Thus it was, that along with a handful of nicely cut (though outrageously priced) jackets, blouses and decently short matching  skirts, Harrods were able to furnish me with a really gorgeous psychedelic long sleeved minidress under the ‘Montego Bay’ label to be put aside for ( as Mum put it ) ‘those special occasions’.

I was expecting to have most problems with the footware department that afternoon, as soon as I learnt that we were going to be taking a ‘cab to Bond Street on the insistence of my father.

“I always go to the same store as the manager knows my taste and always stocks what I am looking for.”  he affirmed proudly, “And I’m fairly certain that they have a ladies department on the upper floor too.”

“Great!” I muttered under my breath as soon as he was out of earshot.

Padding along glumly in his wake in my School Ma’am style, almost flat heeled black moccasins, (my knee-high suede boots having been passed on to one of the young teachers at the school for a small consideration when I was a bit short of change a week or two before the Christmas break),  half expecting to have to wait until I had sufficient money of my own to shop for more neoteric styles in Paris, but once again was to be pleasantly surprised by the wide variety of stock held by the ‘highly recommended’ retailer.

It took us no more than twenty minutes to select two really nice pairs of heeled court shoes (one in back patent and the other in black suedette) and a pretty little pair of white strappy sandals with a lowish block heel, when my mother must have caught me wistfully eying up the rows of fashion boots on the wall opposite.

“I take it you like those bootees?” she asked me suddenly, which made my heart almost miss a beat. (Mum of course, never saw my maroon suedes or the matching semi-indecent micromini.)

“I prefer the kneeboots actually.” I said, making sure that she knew my likes and dislikes right from the start, as I didn’t want her thinking that there was any chance of setting me up with a pair of truncated pixie-clogs!

“But Jeanne Marie, I’ve always been under the impression that you were rather taken with ankle-style boots with a smallish kittenheel?” she said steadily pursuing the subject.

I raised my eyebrows and wrinkled my nose up distastefully in a manner that made her smile.

“I see.” she said knowingly as she rose to her feet and sauntered over to the display.

Father of course said nothing all this time but reluctantly accepted that he was going to have to dig really  deep into his cavalry twill pocket should I be permitted to settle for a pair of the really lovely sooty black, properly lined  suede kneeboots I had already set my heart on...

For a Friday afternoon, the shop seemed surprisingly busy, so whilst my parents were fussing around the sales assistant discussing such topics as nap brushes and shoe cream  (that clearly wasn’t needed for either suede boots or patent shoes) I sauntered over to boot display again with my hands slipped casually into my coat pockets, irresistibly drawn by the sight of a short row of white knee-high’s.

 I had only recently started noticing white gogo boots on the streets and had already fallen for the look.

“Can I be of help to you madam?” asked a sales assistant in due course.

Turning around to check that my parents were still fully occupied over on the far side of the store, I threw caution to the wind and politely requested the mating half of the really classy  looking example I was holding, complete with white inside zip and white covered heel, but devoid of any fussy laces or fancy buckles and straps. The particular style just happened to conform pretty closely to the look of a pair I remembered seeing being worn by a smartly dressed young woman standing outside Hyde Park Corner tube station only that very afternoon.

As soon as the long white box arrived, I looked round nervously for my parents who were STILL in deep conversation, before picking the boot out from it’s nest of white tissue paper, thrusting my stockinged foot down into the grey lined interior and carefully pulling up the zip whilst wrapping the top few inches of the soft white material around my calf. As soon as it’s twin was zipped snugly in place I rose to my feet, I walked over to the nearest full length mirror and was immediately impressed by how chic they looked with my coat; adjusting my stance to see them first from the front, then from the side, and finally from the back...

By now, I was so busy pandering to my own vanity in front of the mirror that I failed to observe the silent approach of my parents from the other side of the store. Black suede boots to my mind were unquestionably THE boots to be seen in, they were figure flattering, feminine, and were discrete enough be worn either with, or under almost anything; but white PVC boots.. well, they were quite a different story!

I had just peeled off my coat and nonchalantly dropped it onto the nearest available chair whilst remarking to myself how striking the white boots looked when paired to the deep mauve pattern of the long sleeved above-the-knee dress I had chosen to wear that day, when I suddenly espied the unmistakable forms of my parents in the mirror standing a few paces behind me, weighed down with several wellfilled carrier bags. My embarrassment was such that I felt my face immediately flush a deep pink hue. Reaching down, I hurriedly started to unzip the boots muttering pathetic excuses like ‘just wanting to see what they looked like on’ etc. etc.

Snatching them up and grabbing at my coat, I scampered back over to the chair in my stockinged feet to slip on my moccasins whilst quickly, but carefully, placing those lovely boots back in their long white box lying on the floor.

“All done Mum?” I asked on rising to my feet and regaining my composure. I deliberately turned my back on the chair, choosing not to notice that my father had gone rather quiet and  subsequently disappeared from sight. “I feel really well prepared for my new job and can’t thank the both of you enough.”

Mother just looked at me for a few moments with a knowing smile on her lips.

“I think that it’s the very least we could do for you Jeanne Marie.” she said nodding to the sales assistant who had just handed her a well-filled carrier bag.

Looking down into this, the minutes ticked by as she methodically checked the contents of each box in turn against her receipt before lifting her head and drawing my attention towards Father who was now standing beside me.

“But it’s not really me  you should be thanking.” she remarked.

Turning quickly about, I started expressing my heartfelt appreciation to him too, when I noticed that he was holding out a carrier bag for me to take. As I smiled and slipped my hand through the handles, I felt a little puzzled as I had only  just seen the other assistant hand my Mum a similar bag. Thinking for a moment that perhaps there had been some sort of mixup, I quickly glanced down  at the printed label on the end of the long box inside and immediately dismissed any further question of there being a mistake when I saw the clear handwritten letters ‘Wht’ marked in alongside the words  ‘Size 61/2 COLOUR:’

It is true to say that I grew up rapidly in those first eight months I spent in Paris. What with the knowledge that I couldn’t have shared a flat with a nicer group of young women, I was to learn the true meaning of such words as happiness, companionship and trust, along with those on the opposite side of the coin namely, anger, disgust and fear. Paris was, and no doubt still is, a wonderful city to live in, but one should not forget that behind the charm seen by the casual visitor, is a darker more forbidding side most Parisien’s do their best to ignore. Due to the location of our flat on the outskirts of the city centre, we found it easy to integrate into the Paris nightlife and I only visited those melancholic surroundings on very rare occasions, one of which terrified me so much that I almost felt like quitting my job right there and then, such that I might returning home to England on the next available flight.

If I am perfectly honest with myself and look back on how things were for me all those years back, I would be inclined to say that the whole situation could all too easily have turned sour. Being a young woman essentially left to her own devices at such an early age, I was in an incredibly vulnerable position. What if I had been allocated to share a flat with a different type of person for example? It would only have required one of our number to be a little less responsible by offering hospitality to the ‘wrong’ type of person or persons;  the possible repercussions of which being best left to your imagination.

With hindsight, I feel fortunate in being able to say that with my strength of personality and disposition, I was able to see profit from my situation. Being quick to both learn and adapt, I soon found myself accepted as part of the Great City long before it was time for me to reluctantly take my leave and move on.

Like the young woman depicted in the recent television commercial who only uses the ‘best’ washing products for her favourite red dress, I imagine that most people must have some special item in their wardrobe they are particularly attached to. In my case it was that gorgeous pair of white knee boots, though I only came to recognise my fondness towards them after  the suitcase carrying both my holiday clothes and my camera disappeared from the back of our car on the day that David and I returned from our Honeymoon.

So perhaps their untimely disappearance was a fitting end to the relatively short European chapter in my history, as I doubt if I would have found much opportunity to wear them in the new situation I had just seen myself married into. Regularly forming part of my hand luggage as my job took me between England, France, Germany and Italy, those boots had faithfully accompanied me into literally  dozens of restaurants, shows,  art galleries and nightclubs; not to mention featuring in a ‘professional’ photo shoot in one of the larger Paris parks by the Seine, along with TWO appearances in commercial films, they were worn for the last time (with me at least) on a Caribbean Cruise in the August of 1972.

My black suede kneehighs however, still exist to this day, stored in a cloth bag in the bottom of my wardrobe. Though sadly, a little ‘frayed around the edges’ after thirty-odd years of my ownership (and only ONE resole in all that time!) they still see the occasional outing in the cooler weather usually under a long dress or skirt. Mind you, one of the best things about suede is it’s rather ‘mottled’ appearance. Unlike ordinary shoe leather it never needs any polishing and reveals few signs of general wear and tear unless one physically abuses it or worst of all, allows it to remain damp in storage.